


The Spell of Revolution

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Magical France is a mess, Wizard Les Amis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: The boy's eyes though... Dumbledore's seen that stone hard determination before, in dark irises that'd later turned red."Zat boy," Madame Maxine huffs beneath her breath, arms crossed and looking both fond and annoyed all at once."My pardon, Madame?""I told 'im not to wear zat coat of 'iz. Zat littlee revolutionary of ourz."





	The Spell of Revolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).



 

 

 

 

The first time Harry meets them, it is just the one. There's apparently an entire group, though she won't meet them until a few weeks later.

 

It's at the World Cup, and she's walking around with the Weasleys, trying to find the little plot of land they will be inhabiting for the night. Every so often, she'll sceptically glance towards the tent, the tent that looks as if it'll struggle to house just the twins, let alone all the Weasley clan that're out and about. Never mind with the addition of Harry and Hermione themselves.

But, she's too embarrassed to ask.

Most times, Ron forgets she's not grown up in this world, having been such a well-known figure throughout his life it's like the ginger haired boy cannot even begin to comprehend that this is all so incredibly foreign to her. Even Hermione forgets, assuming that Harry has consumed the same mountain of textbooks she has.

That's not true and Harry... she just doesn't want to seem like the odd one out. The one that doesn't know anything.

So she offers a grin, trudges on and tries to tell herself that it doesn't matter, she'll figure it out as she goes. It's how she's always got by, after all.

 

Soon enough, her attention is drawn elsewhere, previous thoughts dripping away.

The Irish and their incredible exuberance, the Bulgarians and their steady pride, the Spanish and the Americans and the Scottish and the French. It seems as if every nation has descended upon this single field in the English countryside to witnesses the Quidditch World Cup. It's magnificent.

Harry's feet lead her forwards, eyes wide as she inspects the multitude of tents that're stretching out in a sea of colours before her, some even sparkling, sunlight hitting the water's surface. Her lips part; a snitch flutters through the air, zipping past and a gaggle of young child trample after it, giggling and screaming.

There's an excitement permitting the air, wrapping her up and carrying her on, pulling Harry along until she's well and truly in the heart of it.

There's vending stalls, merchants cashing in on the World Cup and Harry's aware of just how much gold sits in her expanded purse.

She steps forwards, eyeing the vast array of produce, looking between things that seem so familiar and yet, so different all at the same time. So engrossed, it's a complete surprise when she collides with another person.

They both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, messy black hair and startled yelps.

Reeling back, Harry brushes her bangs out of her eyes, shoving glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

The boy she's tripped over is half sprawled beneath her, an amused grin in his face, hair an artfully tousled mess, a brown so dark it could almost pass as black. He's still smiling, this boy who's perhaps a year or so older than her, this boy with a face as pleasing and friendly as Cedric Diggory's.

His mouth parts, and out tumbles a waterfall of words Harry cannot even begin to understand. Her knowledge of foreign languages extends to a single Spanish swear word she'd overheard an older child teaching Dudley years ago. That's no help here at all.

"Sorry, I don't-"

"Ah, English. I should have guessed!"

The boy grins on, rising to his feet and offering his hand out to help her up. "My apologies..."

"Oh, er, Harry," she splutters, unwilling to give her full name. How far does the legend of the Girl Who Lived stretch? Will this foreigner know? He hasn't seen the scar yet, so perhaps she might finally be able to have a conversation with a stranger and not be gawked at?

She slips her hand into his, allowing the boy to reel her up onto her feet, mind still tingling because she knows that accent he sports, she's heard it before. Probably in one of Aunt Petunia's stupid old romantic movies.

"A pleasure, Mademoiselle. I'm Nathaniel Courfeyrac."

And he actually kisses her hand. Her face is on fire.

Harry pulls her hand back in shock, dithering on if it'd be too rude to wipe the back of her hand, she can still feel the imprint of his lips upon her knuckles. How sad, that this is the closest she has ever come to a true kiss.

"Just call me Courfeyrac."

He rocks back on his heels, the pleased motion doing little to hide his obvious bemusement over her reaction.

"Right. Courfeyrac. Sorry for bumping into oh."

"No, no! I'm pretty sure the fault was mine! Have you just arrived? Do you need a guide around the market? I'm very good at bartering with the merchants, if that's the case."

He winks, his face friendly and warm and he's not looking at her forehead. That's what does it for Harry.

She relaxes, tension melting from her shoulders, lips curling up at the corners.

"I... I think I'd like that. If you're not too busy?"

"Never too busy for a Mademoiselle in need!" the boy, Courfeyrac, declares, offering his hand again and Harry hesitates for a second. He's not going to try and kiss it again, is he? Surely not, he's already done it once, so...

Harry offers the limb once again and finds herself pleasantly surprised when it's subsequently tucked against Courfeyrac's side, her fingers curling into the crook of his elbow. Hell, they look like someone out of one of Petunia's period drama. Especially given that Courfeyrac is in an outfit that'd probably fit in with a nineteenth century backdrop. Not to say he doesn't look good in those clothes, but it's still strange.

"Come now then, I have to know. Are you supporting the Irish or the Bulgarians?" Courfeyrac asks, guiding her down the isles of tables and shelves, all hastily erected for the duration of the Cup. "Some Great British loyalty, or a love for the youngest seeker on the circuit?"

Harry doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, eyes still taking in all of the merchandise, from the leprechaun theme Irish products to the heavily scowling man that seems to be slathered on everything even remotely related to the Bulgarian side.

"Irish," Harry answers, "because at least I know where they come from on a map."

Courfeyrac laughs, head tipped back and the sound rumbling up from his chest, the genuine sound permitting the air.

"A valid point. Are you a Hogwarts student, Mademoiselle Harry?"

"You can just call me Harry," she pouts out; she certainly doesn't feel as if she's worthy of a title as delicate as 'mademoiselle'. "And yeah, I am. I'll be starting my fourth year at Hogwarts in September."

 

 

 

 

 

 

They walk and they talk and Courfeyrac manages to barter three vendors down until Harry's spent only half of what she would have done without him. He carries her bags despite how much she protests that she's perfectly capable of doing so herself, all the while keeping her arm tucked against his ribs until Harry doesn't even notice it anymore. She's learnt so much, that there's another magical school over in France, which sounds incredibly elegant compared to Hogwarts in structure.

Still, Harry cannot imagine going to a different school, cannot imagine a life without Hogwarts.

From there, they go on to talk about friends and Harry discovers Courfeyrac is part of a rather large group of friends, most of whom he's here with.

"...of course, we're missing our chief," Courfeyrac muses, taking a quick sip of his grape juice, something that's apparently a common beverage over at Beauxbatons. He'd insisted on purchasing one for her, despite Harry having more than enough money to pay for herself. Claimed it was the gentleman's code, or something like that. His excuse had amused her enough that Harry's let it slip, just this once. But only with the promise that she could treat him to some ice cream before he returned back to France.

"Your chief?"

"Enjolras. He's kinda like the leader of our group. While we're here in the lap of tent-life luxury, he's slumming it back in a cell in France."

Wait, what?

"A cell?!"

"Yeah. Genius thought it'd be a good idea to turn up at the Ministry to give a rousing speech to the masses over how muggleborn working conditions are unacceptable... from your face, I'd say you should look up France's political climate, it's been the same for near two hundred years now. Anyway, Enjolras gives his speech as people are getting their portkeys to come here, then the Aurors turn up and stick him in cuffs. Disturbing the peace or something. They won't be able to get any charges to stick, we're only fifteen after all, but they can detain him for seventy-two hours."

Courfeyrac shrugs, a 'what can you do' motion as he tips back the last of his grape juice.

"That sucks," Harry mutters, all the while her brain whirls because what is happening in France? Why would it be so bad that someone (a teenaged someone) would feel the need to hold a rally of sorts outside a government building? And that he got arrested for it? Do the French not have the freedom of speech thing?

"I'm sure you could meet him in the future," Courfeyrac declares, still wearing that winning grin, "what with the Triw-"

"Harry! There you are!"

The rest of Courfeyrac's sentence is drowned out and they both turn towards the source of the bellow, one Harry would recognise anywhere.

It's Ron and a stone settles in Harry's stomach.

She'd wandered off, got swept up in all the wonder and excitement and utterly forgot she was suppose to stick with the Weasleys.

"Oops," she whispers under her breath, Courfeyrac laughing beside her, some French she has no hope of recognising leaving from between his lips, the tone warm and amused.

"We've been looking everywhere for you- who's this."

It's not really a question, more a suspicious demand and Harry tries not to giggle.

The red of Ron's cheeks doesn't compliment his bright hair, nor his squinted, suspicious eyes.

"Alas, Mademoiselle Harry, it would appear this is where we part. Perhaps you may write me, or we may even schedule to meet again?"

"I- yeah. I'll write, definitely." How can she not? This is the first friend she's made since Ron and Hermione, a friend she made without the help of her scar or the threat of a troll bearing down on them.

"Brilliant!"

Courfeyrac untangles her arm effortless from his side, peppering a kiss to her hand before she can even think where he was going with the gesture, wrapping her fingers around the handle of her shopping bags.

"A good day to you, Mademoiselle Harry, Monsieur."

 

 

 

Then he's gone, disappearing back into the crowds and leaving both Harry and Ron red in the face, for two very different reasons.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

"You've got a letter, Courfeyrac!"

Snapping to attention at the call of his name, Courfeyrac glances up from his breakfast plate with blurry eyes, inspecting the fluffy white owl that's perched itself upon the chair back beside his own. It's a lovely creature, the kind of owl his far too rich parents would approve of.

"Who's it from? Marcellia? Cecile? Oh, is it from Fleur?"

The whole lot of them laugh at the last name, barring Enjolras, who's too engrossed in the newspaper, and Grantaire, who's too engrossed in his 'grape juice'.

Courfeyrac's rather certain his fellow student's drink is grape based, but something as innocent as juice? No chance. Nonetheless, it's not like Magical France has something as mundane as an age limit on alcohol.

Accepting the letter, Courfeyrac offers the messenger a strip of bacon that is accepted eagerly.

Tearing open the letter, Courfeyrac's eyes take in the English words, take in the signature at the bottom and he grins.

"It's Mademoiselle Harry!"

"Mademoiselle Harry?"

"My English rose," he explains, smoothing out the parchment for further regard once he is done with his breakfast.

The rest of the boys hoot and Courfeyrac nods his head graciously, basking in the limelight of the moment.

Then it's over and things turn serious.

"Well gentlemen," Courfeyrac begins, tone drawing Enjolras out from his newspaper and Grantaire from his bottle, "I have made first contact with the English while the rest of you were bumming around. Our first credible source on England and it's magical community as a whole."

"Well done, Courfeyrac."

The serious, genuine praise has Courfeyrac squirming.

It's Enjolras, he just has this... magnetism. He pulls them all into his orbit, until their circling and he's the centre of their universe, the chief that dictates all that occurs, decides when day becomes night and vice-versa.

It’s quite apt tha Enjolras’ given name is Apollo.

"We'll have a solid point of contact when we visit Hogwarts and from there it is all about building up support. If we can get the English on side, change in France will be that much swifter when faced with international pressure."

Enjolras rarely ever smiles from humour he feels. His smiles are always proud little things, brought on by hope and determination. Determination to see a better France.

And after that trip to England Courfeyrac understands, seeing the muggleborns thrive (though they clearly need some help on the 'magical beings are equal' front over there) in a way that France's just... don't.

Oh sure, they get a quality education via Beauxbatons. But the only way they'll ever be able to use that education is to go further afield, to Spain or Italy or any other country but France. It's such a closed community, the only real jobs left are those on the same level as what the house-elves work. Grindelwald certainly didn't help with his momentary take over, and the rich, pureblood families have worked tirelessly to ensure it remains that way.

No more though, Courfeyrac thinks.

Not if Enjolras gets his way.

His fellow student is determined, top of their class (and probably their school) and has no problem disregarding his parents' inherited ideals.

If Enjolras can be so incredibly brave while all Courfeyrac has to do is write a letter right now, then so be it. It's not an exceptionally difficult task after all.

 

Plus, Mademoiselle Harry had been a genuinely lovely lady to speak with.

No hardship at all.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't ever plan on posting this. But you said you needed some Les Mis/Harry Potter, Cywscross, so here.


End file.
